


A tale of Two Good Men

by LCNH1



Series: WWE Thrallverse [8]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-03-13 14:40:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18943027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LCNH1/pseuds/LCNH1
Summary: A present day escape turns into tripping over the past. But how do they connect?





	1. Chapter 1

Midnight.

 

May 1, 2019.

 

A Las Vegas jail, overbooked as ever, found a cell for their latest catch.

They had been called to a bar where a wild fight had broken out. They dragged out the man who many witnesses claimed was the instigator, even if he didn’t have a mark on him from the battle.

He nearly started another fight when they refused the name he gave as an alias. He’d lost his wallet in the melee and couldn’t prove otherwise, so he spitballed a bunch of names at them until the could settle on one. Still drunk, didn’t care.

They hauled him to an isolated cell so there would be no more fights. “This is your lucky night,” one of the guards snarked, “You get the corner office.”

He didn’t even resist, brain still a little foggy from the events of earlier in the evening. He’d need an hour or two to clear his head.

 _Maybe less,_ he thought as he saw a string of hash lines on the wall. Someone had been stuck in here for a couple years. He counted the batches of hash marks, stopped when it brought the headache back. He sat down on the cot, ideas flooding his mind. This wasn’t his night to be stuck in jail. Who goes to jail on a Wednesday? This was a Friday or Saturday deal.

Even after lights out he didn’t lay down to sleep. He had no plans on being here in the morning when the nine to fivers showed up. He paced the small space a few times, thoughts still scattered and a little muffled from the booze. Something started to click when his hands touched two of the walls. One wall stayed warm, the other significantly cooler. He gave the cooler wall a few curious taps, hearing the slightest of echoes. This was a single wall. This would be the new exit.

He looked up and down the wall, seeing all those hashmarks again. He wouldn’t be adding to them. He would _avenge_ them. Instinct took over, and he threw his shoulder into the concrete wall. The wall shuddered in response. _Is it that simple?_ A stray clear thought came through. _This wall isn’t as strong as I am._

Not registering these clearer thoughts he gave the wall a couple more hard shoulders. Again the wall trembled, then cracked. He should have been surprised by this, but no emotions registered. This is how it’s supposed to be. Could he do it more? Could he do this harder?

Both fists clenched, stretching every muscle in his arms and shoulders taut. He lowered his shoulder again, and with a strange tingle up that arm and shoulder rammed the concrete one more time. This time it surrendered. Chunks the size of his fist spilled through both sides of the wall.

He should celebrate this. No, no time; the guards will hear him regardless of what he chooses next, so he chose to widen the hole. His calloused hands grabbed for straying cracked chunks that had not fallen free, punching some out, digging some into the cell. He didn’t need a lot of room. Wide enough for his shoulders, everything else he could work around. He shoved a couple more pieces outward before climbing through.

He’d beaten the interior guards by a good five seconds. They’d heard the thudding noise and mistook it for a simple temper tantrum from their recent arrival. This was no temper tantrum. This calculated power move had shattered storm-proof concrete, and this drunk lunatic ran loose in the yard.

No gunshots rang out immediately and the searchlights couldn’t focus on him. He could hear one dog chasing him, a pretty big one. He just had to beat it to the fence; climbing over shouldn’t take long and once clear of the grounds it’ll take them time to get a search going outside of the facility.

He scaled the fence in record time, not slowing until he landed on the other side. Several sharp pains ran up and down his right arm as he hit the sidewalk on the free side. A testing tug told him he’d not completely cleared the top of the fence, as some of the razor wire had followed him down and wrapped around said arm in a last ditch attempt to reel him back in. He growled a moment, smelling the blood oozing from each place the wire bit into him and held fast.

Now his mind started to clear. He was a wanted man. Wanted for his explicit violence and mayhem, a man who left behind blood and broken bottles at every bar he’s crashed in Las Vegas and a hundred other cities across the United States. A masochistic smile crawled through his beard as he tensed his arm, again with that strange tingle he felt in the cell, and ripped a length of the razor wire down to take with him, a reminder that he would not be returning any time soon. He even took a moment to wrap it a little tighter; it didn’t hurt anymore.

Now he knew. He knew why they were scared. He knew why they would keep looking for him. He knew what they hadn’t figured out yet, and when they did the city would be flooded with police looking for him.

The black clouds already gathered above. The Thunder and the Lightning would come. The fresh blood opened the cold case of the missing Jon Moxley. And he had no plans on being caught again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that we know our fugitive, what does he know or remember? He looks up a local friend for help.

May 1, 2019.

 

4:30am.

Moxley had to make a pretty long and roundabout walk to a safe house he recalled - a basement gym run by an old friend. Of course it would be closed at this hour except for pre-arranged meetings, but the schedule was clear and the windows were dark. Even from street level Moxley could see that. He hopped down the stairs anyway, keeping himself further anonymous in a black hoodie he stole from a Goodwill bin. 

This wasn’t a “polite” or “prearranged” hour anyway, so Mox skipped the grace of a gentler knock and pounded with the entirety of his forearm, rattling the window and hinges. “BRODIE!” He shouted at the door between poundings. “Open up!! Got an emergency, need another hand for it!”

It took three or four of these slightly slurred announcements before a light came on inside. A gruff, older voice shouted back to the visitor. “GO AWAY STUPID MARK! WE’RE CLOSED!”

“Brodie!” Mox shouted again. “You know who this is - “

“Some dumbass smark that happens to know my old name!” He shouted back as he ripped the door open. “Now go away before I call - “ 

Mox didn’t even flinch as a taller man stomped out to face him, eyes red from lack of sleep and mounting anger. His shaggy black beard and black mop of hair covered a majority of his pale face, save for the glaring hazel eyes that had spent time wide Open and distant. They locked on the brilliant blue eyes that Mox had, eyes deeper than the oceans and almost as dark and dangerous. His anger abated once he recognized his visitor.

“Dean, it’s almost 5 in the morning,” The bearded man gruffed.

“Who?” The smaller man replied in honest confusion. “Brodie, it’s me, Mox. We tried to kill each other in CZW?”

“That why you’re not calling me ‘Harper’?”

“Should I? I didn’t know you had a new gimmick… hey, can I come in? People are looking for me.”

Brodie stepped aside to let his longtime friend in. “‘Harper’ or ‘Luke Harper’ has been my thing for years. We stood across the ring from each other. You don’t remember?”

“Right now, the only thing in my head is that I just broke out of jail and I need to find my way out of the country. I don’t think I killed anybody this time.”

Brodie scavenged two beers from the fridge and put them on the table to let Mox choose. “Well, I’ve been off the road for a while, so maybe my memory’s finally going, too.”

Mox eyed both beers before picking the less expensive of the pair and opening it up for himself. “I got in a big fight at a bar. I know that won’t surprise you,” Mox began with an attempt at a genuine chuckle. “I lost my wallet in the ruckus and didn’t have it on me when they took me in. They didn’t believe me when I said ‘Jon Good’ so I gave em a bunch of random names - “

“Sami Calihan? Brandon Tolle? Jake Crist?” Brodie read off to his nervous friend, managing a calmer laugh. “So they put you in the drunk tank…”

“And I wasn’t even THAT drunk,” Mox continued to glance around. “I’d just come from the Gold Coast casino, got to talk about Cody Hawk - I just know that the night started off with a lot of friends from Cincinnati and a buncha wrestlers who marked out over me. Some random chick said she owed me a beer. I told her ‘a lot of people owe me beer’ and of course she never showed up afterward...”

While Mox rambled on, Brodie took a few sips of beer that his friend rejected, partially listening. It talked like a Mox, it drank like a Mox, it got into trouble like a Mox, so what happened to Dean Ambrose? He expected a “what year is it?” question, though either version of this man really didn’t care too much about too much; for all Brodie knew, Mox probably thinks he was on a 6-plus year bender.

“So how did you break out this time, Mox? Beat up a guard? Start a riot in the prison? I never heard the rest of the story about the laundry cart and - what was her name? Jeannie?”

“Jesse,” Mox corrected immediately. “It was an underwear cart and Jessie was on the wrong side of the prison. I got her out of there before I realized ‘he’ coulda gotten hurt in General population. I think she’s still local, might have to try her number.” Mox shrugged and sipped on his beer.

“Tonight was different. My brain went into some weird autopilot and I started checking the walls. I broke a concrete wall with my bare shoulder!” He hastily stood and ripped off the hoodie, getting a better look at his arms. 

He tried not to look so fascinated but he couldn’t help it. He’d always had broad shoulders, that didn’t surprise him. The biceps,clearly defined, again tingled a little as he tensed his arm. His forearms had a rigidness to them and his leathery hands matched up. So familiar, still new. He nodded in approval.

“Looks like I haven’t been bored all this time,” he grinned for a moment, but again his blue eyes faded into fresh confusion. “I shouldn’t be able to smash a concrete wall with a couple of shoulder blocks. Thinking about it right now, no, that’s not supposed to happen. But in that moment - in that moment I decided I Wasn’t gonna stay - I laid into that wall with everything I had and it broke.” 

He made a fist with his right hand and that tingling sensation erupted anew. “But I could  _ feel  _  that I could do it. I don’t know how else to explain it.”

Brodie watched his friend wrestle with a concept that might be partially lost on him. “Do you remember the cult? Do you remember your brothers?”

“Brothers?” Mox repeated with disgust. “And cults? If I joined one, I’m guessing they locked me in the gym for a year.” He marveled again at his arms, surprised but deeply satisfied. He’d like to remember how they happened to be that big, especially with the giant scars on his right arm.

“I don’t have any ‘brothers’,” Mox sneered back at Brodie. “Just because I know you doesn’t mean I trust you. I might call you ‘brother’ but that’s just slang.”

“I was the one in the cult,” Brodie admitted, sending Mox into a fit of laughter.

“You? In a  _ cult?  _ I didn’t know cults allowed raggedly jeans and dirty wifebeaters. Hope you got to keep the motorcycle and bandanas.” A goofy smile appeared in the middle of Mox’s shaggy beard, imagining all of this. “So what’s this about me and my so-called ‘brothers’?”

“You were in a faction. With Tyler Black and with Matt’s little brother Joe.”

“Joe’s healthy enough to wrestle??” Mox boggled. “That’s a good thing. I’d help him along no problem. Tyler’s too full of himself to be seen with anyone short of a bodyguard, was that was Joe was doing while I tagged with that egomaniac?”

“It’s pretty complicated. I think you need to sleep some of that off before I tell you more. Either way, I,” Brodie announced. “Am going back to bed. My gym is your gym til the doors open at eight if you need to lay low.”

“THEN I’ll sleep!” Mox declared. “When I wake up, I hope you remember I can be even worse when I’m sober.”

“Good night, Mox. Don’t break anything this time.” Brodie closed his bedroom door.   
  


\-------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The next few days Mox spent mostly sober. He’d use the gym during down times to get re-acclimated to his body, which felt a LOT better than he expected after so many years in the ring. Brodie had tried to fill in the blanks but Mox couldn’t get his head wrapped around. He’d given up deathmatch wrestling, somehow made a ton of money in WWE, is now happily(?) married to a hot blonde. Not only is he wanted by the authorities, but by every other wrestling company on the planet despite giving up what he felt was a signature style of his? 

Brodie even offered to show Moxley some of that time, but it made the Cincy native nervous. Did he really want to see it? He was definitely up for seeing his hot wife, maybe before he skipped town. 

“Good luck catching her,” Brodie scoffed. “She works Mondays.”

“I thought you said she wasn’t a wrestler,” Mox complained. “I’m good either way, but - “

“She’s a color commentator.” Brodie’s statement only made Moxley laugh again. 

“Me? Married to a commentator? That’s right up there with the thing about the hot dog cart - “

“Or walking in a blizzard?” Brodie interrupted, referencing another incident.

“Hey, I know I did that! Work enough shows in Philly…”

The taller man just shook his head and changed the subject. “How are the workouts?”

“Almost got my groove back,” Jon showed off with a little shadowboxing. “Still wondering about that twinge in my arm from time to time. Hope it’s not nerve damage.”

“Don’t think it is,” Brodie replied with some certainty. “Just your right arm, or is it both arms?”

Mox did some more shadowboxing. “Both. Why?”

“That ugly scar on your right arm is from a couple of surgeries when you messed up your tricep. They used Samoa Joe to write you out.”

“Samoa Joe?” Mox blinked in surprise. “Wow, I musta really rung my own bell on this.” He curled his arms tight again, feeling that twinge of power he recalled from jail. “Not gonna lie, whatever I did while I was ‘out’ musta really worked.”

“And I know the next step’s coming sooner than later,” Brodie added with confidence. He handed over a large envelope. “All done. Passport, ID, some cash. Got you a sweet deal on a red-eye to Belfast. Celebrate being free while everyone’s looking for you.”

“You coming along?” Mox absently asked as he explored the contents of the envelope. “People say I shouldn’t be out by myself….”

“I’m not going to start worrying about you,” Brodie assured his friend. “It’s the rest of the country I worry about. I’ll see you on the news.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so Mox walks into a Belfast bar.....

 

May 9, 2019.

1:30am Belfast time.

The stink of stale beer, old sweat and cigar smoke was a breath of fresh air for Jon Moxley. An Irish pub had its own charms of the locals talking football and politics, some singing songs and some just enamored with the alcohol before them. Jon didn’t admire any beer long enough to care, pounding one after another on dares and bets from the patrons who wanted to see if this “crazy Yank” could hold his liquor down. He knew he could win that bet every time, and had done so a dozen times over to the frustration of the older regulars and to the amusement of a younger, better dressed man who sipped quietly on his pint as Mox drank others completely under the bar.

Jon flopped next to the dapper man, offering his free hand to his audience. “Name’s Jon. No I’m not local.”

The Irishman returned the handshake with a bright smile. “Fergal. County Wicklow. Not one of my regular bars, but looks like I picked a good night to just watch.”

“Don’t look like the fighting type to me,” Mox scoffed before finishing the beer in hand. “No amount of beer’s gonna make anyone in here pretty, looks like you didn’t need the help.”

Fergal chuckled at the American’s observation. “If anything, it’s a rare night that we’ve got more than a couple of Americans in here. You’re not alone, Jon.”

“Why? This off the tourist path or somethin? And seriously, you stick out more than I do.”

Mox looked his new friend up and down. Probably thirties, with close-cut dark hair, piercing blue eyes and neat beard. Fergal had a coat wrapping him up, staving off the last chills of winter despite the warmth of the room. Definitely not a fighting guy; this young man had his back to the bar, leaning on it with both arms as he watched arguments escalate and the songs lose tune and bend bawdier. Fergal’s smile rarely changed in the chaos; Mox kept looking to the mob to see what this dude was smiling about.

Fergal caught on to that and gestured to the room. “Mostly regulars, I’d guess,” he responded, “but if you want some really sore thumbs, what about those two?”

Mox followed the point, spotting two long-haired, bearded men sharing a table cluttered with bottles and glasses.The larger man had a deep, definitely NOT Irish tan, his thick black hair tied back in a half ponytail. The man’s blue-gray eyes looked over the room periodically is his piss-drunk friend hopped around the chairs and table they shared, brown eyes wide and brown hair wild around his slender face. A nasally, shrieky noise erupted in beer-flavored courage, bragging about his agility and being some sort of great champion. That voice annoyed Mox enough to order another beer to see if the next one could mute that screech. “So what about em?” Jon’s nonchalant question as he opened another cold one.

“Don’t recognize em? Guessin you didn’t go to the wrestling show tonight.” Fergal took another sip of his pint, curious if he recognized this American sitting with him. Maybe it was the beer.

“Wrestling?” Mox’s eyebrows shot up in new interest.”Something going on locally? Would love to catch a show.”

“Dunno about local,” Fergal replied, “but WWE is in town and will be around the UK for a couple of weeks.”

Jon’s expression steeled a little. Brodie sent him here on purpose, didn’t he? This was a ploy to see if this “Dean” nonsense would come back to Mox and he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. He tried to hide his anger by gesturing back to the long-haired duo. “So those guys are wrestlers?”

Fergal nodded. “The loud one over there is Seth Rollins, their current champion. His friend putting up with him is Roman Reigns.”

“That dude Reigns… Samoan?” Mox found the dark-skinned guy looked familiar. “Fatu or Anoa’i?”

“Anoa’i,” Fergal replied before sipping at his pint again. “Heck of a champion himself. Just got back from battling Leukemia, still in pretty good shape for being down for a few months.”

“Wow,” Mox’s neutral response. Deep down it made him very happy that Joe was able to beat something that could bring down the strongest of wrestlers. Even with all the advances in medical technology, “cancer” was pretty final to Mox.

He turned back to watch, finally recognizing “Seth” as Tyler Black. Still the brash, believes-his-own-press hothead who wanted the spotlight on him at all times. Despite the libations, Seth Rollins seemed to keep decent balance to the slightly annoyed relief of Roman Reigns.

Roman himself looked pretty fit for a couple of months off treatment. Matt’s younger brother long and lean, nowhere near as big as Matt was. The sharp expression still there, not softening as Seth only got louder and clumsier in his effort to impress anyone in the room. Sadly, Seth’s attempts only made the patrons roll their eyes or grumble under their breath.

Mox picked up on the souring mood, finishing his beer. “Hey Ferg, ever been in a bar fight?”

Fergal nodded. “I won’t be in one tonight if I can help it.” He scanned the room as well. “Might not have a choice, given those two.”

As if on cue, Seth lost his balance and dropped from the chair and table he’d balanced on, a loud crack as his head bounced off the wooden table that didn’t give. This silenced the entire bar for a few seconds, a mix of relief and continued annoyance as Seth writhed on the floor, holding his head and still screeching, this time in pain. Mox put both hands to the bar top, knowing someone in this bar wanted to start something. He wouldn’t mind finishing it.

A patron near Seth and Roman’s table had heard more than enough, snatching a bottle from another table and brandishing it at the prone Rollins. Roman instantly to his feet, growling a response in a baritone lost in the hum of the room. Seth quieted down but remained curled up on the floor, likely praying that the bottle aimed at his head would end up elsewhere.

Roman took a strong stance between Seth and the patron, eyes glaring down and … flickering? Mox rubbed his eyes quickly, wondering if the booze or the lights were playing tricks on him. A glance to Fergal noted that smile turning a little sinister as he watched. Jon couldn’t help himself as the tenseness of the standoff had him similarly excited.

“Do it….” Mox whispered to himself, “See what happens when you hit a Samoan in the head.”

Fergal nodded along, as if hearing Mox’s plea.

The patron stood up to Roman, putting everything he had into swinging the bottle at the big Samoan’s head. His hand was not blocked from the swing, nor did his target attempt to dodge. The smashing of glass sounded pretty satisfying, garnering some cheers from around the room as the glass flew in multiple directions.

Said patron opened his eyes to see Roman still standing there, stoic. A few shards of glass had stuck in his mane, but no trace of blood from the bottle’s impact. “Why you hittin a Samoan in the head, son?” He asked with annoyance and a hint of arrogance.

Mox grinned even wider, wanting to slide off his stool right then and there. “This is my favorite part.”

“As is mine,” Fergal agreed with another sip, not letting on that he had a different reason to be excited for the impending fisticuffs.

Roman waited for the drunken patron’s next move, which came from a second swing with the broken bottle in hand. His right hand snapped to the opponent’s wrist with impressive speed, not even a flinch from Roman; instead, his head tilted in calculated curiosity, looking at the hand as it slowly opened and dropped the bottle’s remains to the floor. The bottle broke a little too close to Seth, who had managed to glance up at his big brother defending him. Seth scooted clear when he heard a distinct crackling sound, a bluish light that only he and Finn could see.

Mox saw it too. He hesitated at the sight, recognizing the color as almost the same shade of blue he saw in Roman’s eyes a few seconds before. No one else in the room reacted to it. Were they too drunk to notice? Mox figured that electrical flicker would have cleared the room. Instead, dumb patron reached for a chair with his off-hand. Roman’s reflexes too fast for the drunk man as he yanked the trapped arm forward, sending the attacker to the ground in a heap.

He turned to the rest of the room and rocked his shoulders in challenge. “Anyone else?” He challenged. Mox really wanted to get up and answer it, but Fergal shook his head no, motioning his American friend to wait.

The drunken courage of the room bolstered as several patrons stood, each grabbing for a bottle or a chair. The big Samoan’s expression didn’t change, nor did it turn away from the gathering mob. His right arm flashed again, the energy tracing across the elaborate tattoo and down into his fist. He then reared back, emitting a primordial Samoan roar that only made Fergal and Mox grin even wider.

Both knew these patrons would need more backup.

The room exploded into action, patrons charging Roman and others tearing into their peers if they couldn’t reach the Samoan in question. Seth had backed himself to the corner, eyes wide as Roman took the mob head-on.

Only now did Fergal gesture to the brawl. “That’s what you were lookin for?”

“Not even gonna need a bottle for this one,” he smirked before diving into the crowd with both fists already flailing.

Fergal had motioned to get up and join his new friend in the melee, but settled back into his seat to watch. This wasn’t his fight, guessed Jon had been looking for one on his to-do list while traveling, and knew Roman nor Seth would need any actual help. He did glance to the corner as Seth finally found his footing, flanking for Roman as the patrons tried to push the two of them back. He delighted in the flashes of power up and down Roman’s arm and soon enough, in Seth Rollins’ eyes.

He couldn’t help but be proud of Seth, able to access his Thrall even in such an intoxicated state. He expected no less from Roman, who hadn’t had as much to drink and could hold his own even without that secondary power to bolster his strength or endurance.

Seth kept close to Roman, eyes scanning attackers as they closed in to Roman’s blind side. With a simple motion, Seth would punch or kick that incoming attacker once and they’d drop to the floor in agony. Where Roman directed this power to his strength, Rollins tuned his to his agility and accuracy, deriving a Precision Strike that he could drop opponents with practiced ease. Its only drawback being that Seth needed a few seconds to suss out the actual weak spot, something that he couldn’t speed up. Most of those attacking them were simple brawlers, so a punch or kick to the head sufficed.

Fergal then glanced back to Mox, whose blue eyes flashed with almost childlike excitement as he brawled through the pile. The Irishman pondered, if only for a second, those eyes flashed for another reason, but lost the thought as Mox flipped men over tables, crashed them into chairs, slammed them into each other with little finesse but a lot of experience. Jon cleared a space long enough to stop for a couple of pretzels before rejoining the fray, re-energized by the sight of a battle in no hurry to slow down.

Mox was indeed enjoying himself. His arms had been twitching for a chance to cut loose in a real fight, and this battle didn’t disappoint. There was blood on his knuckles and glass in his hair, bodies on the floor and his shirt torn up. Yeah. This is something he’d definitely missed. His body telling him he hadn’t been in this frenetic of a brawl in years, and welcomed the challenge.

He did manage a look back at the bar, where he saw Fergal still on his stool, finishing his pint and grinning ear to ear as the war raged on. Mox would have to find this guy afterward and ask why he wasn’t in the middle of all this; maybe Fergal was a lover and not a fighter? Jon agreed to himself that Fergal had a face that a magazine cover could love.

Fergal saw Jon dragged back into the thick of the fight as Roman’s rampage started to slow and Seth’s energies started to flag. Without a word the Irishman put his glass down and slid off the stool, facing the masses and trying to catch his two American friends’ attention. He couldn’t worry about his new friend at this point; if the cops were awake they were on the way, and the three of them would need sleep for the following day’s events. Looks like we’re done here for the night, he thought as he crouched down, as though someone had punched him in the stomach...

Seth and Roman backed to the windows, fighting off the last of the patrons before the room exploded in a brilliant white light. The flash blinded all of the locals and had them staggered in random directions, groaning and pawing at their eyes or flailing blind. Roman smashed the window behind him with a chair and dumped his still-sozzled buddy Seth out of it. He’d follow close behind, and they’d clear out until things calmed down.

Spooked by a flash brighter than a camera bulb or a helicopter searchlight, Jon stumbled through the throng and tried to catch up to Fergal. That was the general direction of the flash, and he swore he saw the Irishman out of the corner of his eye glowing in the center of it. Now he had even more questions, but the stunned and staggered patrons made it harder to work to the door or a window. He shouldered his way to the kitchen and launched out the back door, clear of the fight that would soon be broken up by the local gendarmes.

The adrenaline wore off too quickly for Jon to catch himself, and he unceremoniously slumped in the back alley where he’d escaped. He still had enough strength for a faint smile of accomplishment - up to the end that was a lot of fun. If he ever ran into Fergal again, he’ll buy that lazy but handsome man more than one pint for a memorable evening. He leaned against the wall and let the battle sink in, his arms relaxed from the exertion. He dared close his eyes, not wanting to pass out from the booze or the fatigue, so he started talking to himself.

“That was really something, man… guess I still got it, maybe I never lost it… dunno what happened in the last couple of years, but wow… dunno who that ‘Fergal’ dude was but he’s either the smartest or laziest bar-hopper I’ve ever met… too bad Tyler hasn’t changed… and Joe looks great, Matt’s gotta be all kinda proud of him...”

He rambled on a little more, letting his heart rate come back down. He reflexively rubbed at his arms, his left thumb tracing over the giant scar on his right arm. “Wish I could remember how that happened, and if I could see the other guy… if it wasn’t Samoa Joe, who did that? I owe them a beer, too…”

His rambling slowed as a chilly breeze swept through the alley, which silenced even the noise from the grumbling patrons and important voices of the officials who had come to sort things out. A closer sound caught the brawler’s ear: a rustling, ruffling sound, maybe another drunk sleeping under a bunch of newspapers finally disturbed by the new racket caused that evening.

“You missed a hell of a party,” Mox chuckled to whoever hid in the alley with him. “I probably still have glass in my hair and I know my hands got some blood on em. No teeth lost, my nose ain’t broken. Guess I’m really good at this.”

The initial silent response had a hint of confusion, and more rustling got Jon to open his eyes to see who was joining him in the smelly dark corner of the street.

Another pair of aqua blue eyes started back at him, seemingly floating in the black shadows of the alley. No light filtered in short of any residual flare from the streetlights past the buildings, and no sign of the cops shining a flashlight or two in there to look for either one. “That you, Fergal?” Jon slurred.

“Dean...?” a raspy, growling voice replied in bewilderment. “Dean,” it answered itself.

“Who? I’ve been called that a couple of times. Probably mistaking me for someone else.”

The figure across from him hunched a little before prowling toward Mox on all fours. The motion was too graceful to be tainted with alcohol.

“Dean,” it repeated again as a pale hand at the end of a black and red stained arm pointed in Jon’s direction. Now Jon could see who addressed him and he froze.

This was no human before him. Instead, it was a black-skinned humanoid, wearing a tasseled headdress that blew in the strange cold breeze that swept by a minute ago. Its face mostly black, save for traces of red around its eyes and white around the jawline. The chest wasn’t covered with a shirt; rather, the lower mandible of a giant maw arced open, a slathery tongue as thick as Jon’s forearm lolling forward, “tasting” the air around him. If this thing had any clothes, its waist wrapped in a thick red cloth and a darker red sash, suggesting that this creature certainly not local. Its piercing eyes started to glow in Mox’s presence, locked in a mix of consternation and recognition.

The pointing hand opened slowly, palm up in a curious gesture. “Find you, Dean. Come.”

Jon finally snapped out of his stare and scooted backward. “Dunno who or what the fuck you are, but no thanks.” He raised his own hand in refusal, looking frantically for an escape.

“You.. know Finn?” It asked Mox. “Fergal,” it corrected itself, recalling this man speaking Finn’s real name. “Come. Meet Fergal again? Seth, Roman?”

Mox shook his head nervously. “Look man, I ain’t that drunk, I ain’t that stupid and I ain’t your food. If you DO know Fergal, tell me why he didn’t fight in the bar.”

“Fight…?” The creature tilted its head a moment before the giant tongue twitched and dribbled over the events. “Sloth. Gluttony. Anger. Wrath,” the creature’s eyes closed and the body relaxed, as though pushing away from an empty plate. “Mmmmmm….”

Mox didn’t know what to think of this thing. “Did anyone else see you? I’d have heard more screams…”

The creature slowly shook its head no, the tassels of his crown again rustling like branches in an autumn breeze. “Few can see Balor,” it said as it pointed back to itself. “I know you See. I know you Remember.”

“Remember what?” Jon pushed against the brick wall as this creature prowled ever closer. “Whoa, stay back….”

A swift motion of the creature’s hand seized Jon’s right wrist. “Remember,” it repeated, “And Believe.”

Mox had reflexively clenched his fist, too startled to resist or try to swing. This thing before him stared at the fist, then made a fist with its free hand. “Remember,” it whispered, forcing Mox’s fist to touch up with this creature’s free hand. “Believe,” it half demanded before releasing the hand and bounding off.

That was too much for Mox. His head spun and he finally passed out.


End file.
